


Under Covers

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-17
Updated: 2011-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan and John Watson go undercover to help the Gloucestershire police catch a rapist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for non-graphic references to rape, swearing, racism
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Blooms84](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blooms84/pseuds/blooms84)

John Watson wasn't much to look at, but Sally Donovan soon started to realise there was more to him than met the eye. She'd felt a bit sorry for him when she first met him at Lauriston Gardens; some clueless medic from Barts, she'd presumed, who Sherlock had conned into coming with him in order to piss off Anderson. It was only when they'd started searching 221B for drugs that she'd realised that the small, limping man was a decorated army officer. And later that evening, when she'd been telling him about the dead cabbie, she'd realised a few more things. That he didn't seem to be limping anymore. And that he was a bad liar, but almost certainly an amazingly good shot.

She'd just been about to ask DI Lestrade if they needed to charge Dr Watson when the stranger turned up. He proved to be Freak Mark II, Sherlock Holmes' elder brother, who she'd previously presumed was purely an urban legend. And he made it very clear that the dead cabbie had been killed by persons unknown who were going to stay unknown.

"So he's one of yours, is he?" she'd asked. "John Watson, I mean. What's the Freak done to get a spook as a bodyguard?"

"For your information, Ms Donovan," Mycroft Holmes had replied, with a particularly patronising smile, "Dr Watson is nothing to do with me. Bizarrely enough, he is almost exactly what it says on the tin. An ex-army doctor, who has chosen of his own free will to attach himself to my brother. Extremely attached, it would seem. I know I said 'very loyal very quickly', but I wasn't quite expecting this. Sherlock has not acquired a bodyguard, but, far more implausible, a friend."

Freak II obviously also loved the sound of his own voice, Sally had concluded. But she wasn't sure if he'd guessed what sort of 'friend' Sherlock had made. She just hoped John Watson wouldn't end up shooting the Freak in a couple of months time, after one lover's quarrel too many.

***

She tried to warn Dr Watson off again, a few weeks later, but he'd happily trotted off after Sherlock and ended up nearly getting himself blown up in the process. They said that Sherlock had saved John Watson's life at the swimming pool, but then they also said that Sherlock had deliberately blown up a bomb jacket, so you couldn't believe a word of the rumours.

You'd have thought that any sane man would have avoided the Freak after that, but obviously Dr Watson still hadn't come to his senses about Sherlock. Though Sally had been oddly impressed a couple of months later when they'd been out at a crime scene and Sherlock had dislocated his shoulder trying to open the door of a moving van. Not by the fact that Dr Watson had promptly relocated the shoulder: you'd expect him to be able to do that. But by the fact that he'd cheerfully ignored all Sherlock's instructions while doing so. Maybe he wasn't quite such a pushover after all, she decided, and found herself suddenly wondering what it'd be like to have those strong, solid fingers pressing skilfully into her body.

Oh god, she was losing it completely, she told herself. She’d long come to terms with the fact that she fantasised about white blokes as well as black ones, but imaging _that_ about a gay, white bloke was just ridiculous. Maybe she just needed to make sure that she and Mark rearranged their shifts so they actually spent some time together this week.

She promptly forgot about John Watson’s hands, but Fate obviously hadn’t, because two weeks later she found out exactly what they felt like. Yet another chase after a suspect and this time it was her coming to grief, tripping over a broken paving slab and coming down hard on one arm. Once they had the suspect, Dr Watson had come back to where she was standing and swearing and asked: "Can I have a look?" His gentle touch on her wrist practically had her screaming.

"Probably just a bad sprain, but we ought to check the bone isn't chipped. I'll take you to A and E."

"I can get there on my own," she said.

"If Sherlock hadn't been showing off at Paddington, Mr Curry wouldn't have had a chance to make a run for it. It's his fault you got hurt," Dr Watson said, smiling, "and it's his account the taxi fare's coming from."

At that, she let him take her off to casualty, and he even stuck around till she finally got seen.

"You don't _have_ to," she said.  "And won't Sherlock wonder where you are?"

"No. He'll have lost interest in life and be sleeping for the first time in forty-two hours. Might as well stay, I've got nothing else vital on and you probably need some company."

He was friendly, John was. You had to give him that.

***

John even seemed to be having some influence on the Freak, who was now betraying a few signs of humanity now and then. Though Sally didn't expect _that_ to last, and she wasn't really surprised when Sherlock disappeared off at another crime scene. One minute he and John were looking at the woman who had been found strangled in some London nightclub, the next he was charging off, yelling 'ribbon', and John was just left standing there with her.

He wasn't a bad-looking bloke, actually, particularly when he smiled that warm smile of his, but right now he looked tired and worn and miserable, the way he had when she'd first known him.

"He's dumped you again, has he?" she asked John cheerily, and then realised that was hardly a tactful thing to say.

"He's in a bad mood," he said, with resignation, "because I suggested we should get a train out to Norwood, rather than take a taxi and get stuck in a jam for hours. If he does need me, I'm sure he'll text me later."

"Come and have a drink," she said, smiling at him. "Cheer yourself up."

***

"I'm sorry," John said, several pints later. "Things are just getting to me at the moment. It's terrible when you think there's some man out there who'd kill a defenceless woman like that, choke the life out of her."

Sally wondered about asking if it would have been any better if he'd killed a defenceless bloke, but it wouldn't be fair to wind him up like that. There were worse things a man could believe than that it was wrong to hurt women.

"There's a decent chance of getting our hands on him if the Freak's on the case," she said instead.

"Yeah, but it won't bring her back, will it? Won't make it all better."

"God, you are in a morbid mood tonight," she said, and then hesitated. Maybe there was some bigger problem between him and the Freak. She didn’t want to _interfere_ , but somebody had to keep an eye out for John.

"Anything else bugging you at the moment?" she said at last. "Personal stuff?"

"It's that bloody obvious, is it?" John said, slightly too loudly. "Yes, I got stood up this week and it didn't help my mood."

" _You_ went on a date?" Oh God, that had not come out right, had it, she thought, sounded like she thought no bloke could fancy him. “I mean, I’m sorry to hear that.”

"I was supposed to go on a date with Jaimie Harding,” said John, who was obviously a lot less tight-lipped when slightly drunk. “Do you know her? She's with the Crown Prosecution Service. Tall blonde with very nice legs."

"I didn't realise you dated, erm, you went for–" she began.

"Oh God, Sally," John broke in, grinning rather ruefully. "Don't tell me you thought I was gay as well?" One or two of the other drinkers in the pub looked round, and he dropped his voice. "I'm not sleeping with Sherlock, and even if I were gay I wouldn't be sleeping with him, because Sherlock is not interested in sex with anyone or anything."

"Really?" She tried not to sound too fascinated.

"His least offensive description of sex is 'an unpleasantly oozy waste of time'. But the problem is, far too many people think I'm his partner. Well at least far too many of the women I'd like to date."

"Including Jaimie?" She did know her, she realised, she was the very efficient one who tore you off a strip if your paperwork for a case wasn't all in order. But she got results. And she was good looking, certainly, even if her boobs had possibly had an upgrade.

"No, I convinced her pretty thoroughly that I was straight on our previous date. We were supposed to be going to see _Inception_ this time, but I had to keep changing the day, because it's been frantic at the surgery for the last fortnight. I guess she just got pissed off with me about that."

"That's the problem with civilians," Sally said, "they never realise the job comes first. It's why I always seem to end up with other coppers." Well, and also because she was still dodging the Sunday School teacher her Mum wanted her to settle down with.   

John said, slightly hesitantly: "I heard you and DI Dimmock were...friendly."

"Yeah, me and Mark have been together for about four months now."

"He seems an OK bloke," John said. _Sums Mark up nicely_ , she couldn't help thinking, _an OK bloke_.

"I mean," John added hastily, "Obviously a nice guy, good looking. I'm sure he's a good person to be with. Better than–" He came to a sudden halt.

Oh God, of course. John had been around to see January's fiasco, hadn't he?

"Better than Anderson, you mean?" she retorted. "He told me he and his wife had an open relationship. That just turned out to mean he couldn't keep his flies closed. His wife cut up rough, and that was that."

"You deserve better than Anderson," John said firmly. "He's a complete twat."

 _I deserve better than Mark Dimmock_ , she thought, but she'd somehow ended up with him. There were times you had to settle for what you could get.

***

As she took the tube home, she found herself wondering whether if she'd known earlier on that John was straight, she might have asked _him_ out. Still, he was a bit old for her, and he might well prefer white girls, and she was with Mark now, and... and for all she knew, Jaimie Harding had actually dumped John because he was crap in bed.

***

It was a long cool summer, which did at least keep the murder rate down. She and Mark were both going to have the second week of September off, to sort his flat out. But, of course, on the Wednesday morning – when she was trying to work out the right colour for the kitchen walls – Sally's mobile rang and it was Lestrade.

"I know you're both on holiday," he said, "but I desperately need your help. Two rapes, one attempted rape and they're worried he'll strike again soon."

"We can come in this afternoon, sir," she said, as Mark started making frantic 'no, no' signals. "Two thirty OK?"     

***

It wasn't just Lestrade in his office, but the Freak and John, which confirmed it was something big.

"Thanks for coming," Lestrade started, perching on his desk. "I'm really sorry to drag you in like this, but this is something serious. Did you ever hear of a man called the 'Lambeth Rapist'?"

Mark shook his head, but her breath caught at the nickname even now.

"Yes," she said, "but that was years ago. Must have been. I was still at school then."

"You would have been," Lestrade said. "It was nearly fifteen years ago. A series of rapes and attempted rapes in and around the borough of Lambeth. A dozen attacks at least, over eighteen months. Victims young, most professional women. No homeless, no prostitutes, not the easy targets. All the attacks were at or near bus stops or tube stations. Perpetrator was a tall, burly man, middle-aged, short greying hair, otherwise unremarkable." He paused.

"How come I never heard of this?"Mark said abruptly. "It must have been pretty big, but I don't remember anything."

"You wouldn't have done," Sherlock said confidently. "Wouldn't have affected you or your family. Because the one factor linking all his victims together was that they were black. So maybe it's no wonder that Sally remembers about him, and you don't."

"Yeah," she said. "I was sixteen or so, and there was this white weirdo targeting black women using public transport. I think there was one summer I barely went out anywhere on my own. But the papers didn’t bother much about it, of course.”

"The crimes simply stopped," Sherlock went on. "The speculation was that the rapist got scared off, lost interest for some reason, or possibly even died suddenly. But in the last month there have been three similar crimes in Gloucestershire. All the victims are black women, all near bus routes. And allowing for the fifteen years difference, the descriptions are similar."

"You think he's started up again?" she said. "But why would he do that?"

"I have a number of hypotheses," Sherlock said, "but without more data, there's no way to eliminate any of them."

"Besides," Lestrade added firmly, "the key thing now isn't why, but how we stop the bastard."

"I can try and get something from the old cases," she said, automatically. "Might give some leads for Gloucestershire CID. Any possibilities for DNA testing of the previous evidence?"

"Wrong question," Sherlock said, in his most infuriating tone.

"What?" she demanded.

"Why us?" Mark said, turning to Lestrade. "We're not cold case specialists, and I haven't got any contacts in the Gloucester area."

"Right question," Sherlock said, smiling. "We've got Sally and you in because Lestrade's panicking that the man could strike again very soon. I'm not sure even I can find him in time; the old case files are remarkably uninformative. I'd barely believe it possible, but the Met were actually less competent back in the late 1990s. And the Gloucestershire police appear incapable of spotting a clue unless it's labelled as such."

"So what are you planning?" she asked.

"We've been kicking the options around between us," Lestrade said slowly. "And _our_ idea is that the Met offers to run a decoy operation in Gloucestershire."

"Set someone up as a target for the rapist?" Sally said.

"Not just someone," Sherlock said. "You."

She was too stunned for a moment to say anything, by which time Mark had already jumped up from his chair and started shouting: "No, no way! Don't be ridiculous. Why the fuck should Sally get involved? It's Gloucester's problem."

"Why me?" she asked Lestrade.

"They don't need you!" Mark yelled. "They've got their own officers."

"They need," Sherlock announced, staring down his nose at Mark, "a young, fit, brave policewoman, with previous undercover experience. Who also happens to be either black or mixed-race. There aren't that many suitable officers even in the Met; there are none at all in the Gloucestershire force."

"But why me?" Sally asked.

"There is no-one else as good," Sherlock said, as calmly as if he hadn’t spent the last five years criticising her. "I know we don't get on, Sally, but if you're going to catch this man, you need to work with me."

"No, she doesn't!"Mark burst in again. "She is not doing it, do you understand? I'm not having it. If Gloucestershire want to risk someone, they can do it, but it's not our patch, and I say screw them!"

"You have no idea–" Sherlock began.

"Mr Holmes, it is out of the question–"

It was suddenly too much. What the hell did they think they were playing at?

"Shut up, both of you!" she yelled, and to her surprise they did, though Mark was still casting dirty looks at Sherlock and Lestrade. She tried to force down her rising anger – she was a professional, wasn’t she? She turned to Lestrade.

“Can Mark and me just have a word, sir, before we go any further?” Lestrade nodded and led the others out of the office. Mark stood there beside the desk, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “I know you’re pissed off because we’re supposed to be on leave, but it’s not your call whether or not I do this.”

"It’s unreasonable what they’re asking," Mark replied. "You can't possibly agree to do it."

"Why not?" she asked quietly.

"You might get...hurt."

 _Oh fuck_ , she thought. He still doesn't get it, does he? Surely he ought to, given how many ops he'd been on.

"You went undercover with the Spencer John gang," she said. "If they'd known who you were, you'd have been lucky to get out alive."

"That was different," Mark protested. He looked young and harmless enough to be useful at infiltrating all kinds of places. Right now, he just looked like a small, aggrieved puppy. "I can take care of myself."

She forced herself to stay calm, to sound professional. "So can I. And we need to catch this nutter before he hurts anyone else. If this is the only way to do it, I'm in."

"I'm not letting you take part in this!" Mark insisted.

"It's not up to you, Mark," she said slowly. "I don't work for you."

"No, but you're my girlfriend, and that gives me the right–"

"It gives you no _fucking_ rights!" she burst out, "I decide what I do, not you."

"And I am _asking_ you not to do this," Mark said. There was a belligerent tilt to his head now, that she'd once found endearing.

"No! You're telling me not to do this."

"I am _asking_ you," he repeated. "And if you don't want to listen to my advice, well, maybe you don't want me as your boyfriend anymore, either, Sally."

"What the _fuck_?" she said, and she couldn't believe how she'd got Mark so wrong. "You think coz we're sleeping together, I'm supposed to do what you say?"

"I'm not letting you ignore me anymore, Sally," he said, staring defiantly at her. "If you agree to this, we're through."

She smiled then, because no-one got away with bluffing her. "I haven't decided yet whether I'll do it," she said. "But whether we do or not, we're through anyway. So you go home and paint your kitchen, Mark Dimmock, I’ve got work to do.”

She watched Mark walk off grumpily past Lestrade and the others, and then Sherlock strode back into the office and announced: "Right, that eliminates Plan A."

***

Plan A, it turned out, had been that Mark and her would go undercover together in the village of Midwinter.

"It's where we think the man lives," Lestrade said, "based on the bus routes he uses to go out to the surrounding towns."

"Makes sense," Sally said. "So you want me to try and lure him into an attack in the village itself?"

"It's worth a try. Sherlock reckons he's in an unstable state, and there's some recent event that's led him to start up the attacks again."

"OK, but why did you need Mark involved as well, sir?"

"Because you need an excuse to be hanging around Midwinter," Lestrade said, not looking at her, "which is a rather...traditional place."

"What Lestrade means," Sherlock announced, "is that there's no obvious reason why a black woman would want to go there.  It's the sort of place the Lambeth Rapist might choose to retire to: there are three non-white people in the whole village. The old manor house, however, has recently been turned into an upmarket hotel. And I calculated that our man, who obviously doesn't just hate black people, but specifically successful black women, might get very worked up if someone like Sally turned up there, with her new white husband in tow. We don't have time to waste looking for an alternative to Dimmock. So, Sally, if you're in on the operation, you need to decide who you want to spend a week or two being married to: Lestrade, myself or John?"

Was this just one of the Freak's sick jokes? She turned automatically to Lestrade. "You agree that honeymooners are the best undercover option, sir?  I couldn’t just be a businesswoman travelling on my own?"

“No,” Lestrade said. “We came up with a lot of scenarios, but this has by far the best chance of success. And you need someone watching your back: we don’t want you alone in the village for any length of time, too risky.”

He'd have thought the whole thing through carefully, she knew; he was too experienced to get bounced into something by Sherlock. And if she didn't agree, if she pulled out of the operation now, Mark Dimmock would win, and she wasn't having that. But pretending to be married to Greg would be weird and she certainly wasn't pretending to be married to the Freak. She looked round. She'd almost forgotten John was there, he was doing his 'fade into the background' technique, hadn't said a word. Just standing next to Sherlock, arms folded, looking harmless. She liked him; she could _handle_ him.

"OK," she said, "I'm up for it, and John it is." She wasn't sure if she found Sherlock's smirk or the mixed look of delight and alarm on John's face more alarming.

***

"You'll need a cover story," Sherlock said as soon as they'd relocated to the briefing room. "As close to the truth as possible, because John's an unconvincing liar. So he's still Dr John Watson – it's a common enough name – but not ex-army. Recently back from overseas though, explains why he's only doing locum work. Ex-Médecins sans Frontières, I suggest, worthy but ineffective."

"Thanks," said John with resignation. "That's me nailed."

"As for Sally–"

"What have you got for me, Freak?"

"Sally," John said, and there was a sudden firmness in his voice. "If you're working with me, you don't call Sherlock 'Freak'. Understood?"

John was tougher than he looked, of course.

"OK, _Sherlock,_ " she said, "What have you got planned?"

"There's a solicitor called Sally Donovan working in Croydon," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, I get sent e-mails meant for her occasionally. She does divorce cases, doesn't she?"

"Do you think you can sound like a divorce lawyer?" Lestrade asked.

"Reckon so," she said. "Tough as a copper, but a lot better paid. OK, I'm Sally and he's John. So how did we meet, and what was the wedding like?"

***

A couple of hours later, the plan was coming together: they'd have something workable to put to the Gloucestershire lot, Sally reckoned. She had a to-do list a mile long already, but as she was about to head off, Sherlock said: "Sergeant Donovan, I need a word in private."

He'd been surprisingly restrained in the planning meeting, only called Lestrade an idiot a couple of times. Too good to last, obviously.

"What do you want, Fr–Sherlock?" she asked, when they'd found a free interview room. "Gonna tell me you'd rather it wasn't me you were working with? Because I assure you, the feeling's mutual."

"I was going to say," Sherlock replied coolly, "that you need to remember John's an excellent bodyguard, but he's not used to undercover work, and he's no actor. If you're posing as a couple, you’ll have to work out what you’re prepared to do to make the relationship look convincing."

She'd known that, of course. She was used to undercover work _and_ the one in charge of the op.

"I'll work something out," she said, staring up at him, and then added. "Aren't you glad _we_ didn't have to pretend to be honeymooners?"

"Oh, but Sally, I'm a much better actor than John," he said, and his deep voice was suddenly soft, even tender. "I wouldn't need any _encouragement_ to act as if I found you irresistible." He smiled, and strode out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally and John are going undercover as a honeymooning couple, but how far will Sally go to make the operation work?

The operation was easy enough initially. Gloucestershire had accepted their plan with an eagerness that suggested that they really didn't know how to cope with a serial rapist with racist overtones, and all that had mattered for the next few days had been putting things into place. But now it was Saturday evening, and Dr and Mrs John Watson were sitting in the best bedroom of the Midwinter Manor Hotel, with Lestrade signing them off for the night.

"Next contact is 8 a.m.," his calm voice said over the phone. "We'll give you plans for the day then. Inspector Forbes will be on the line overnight if you need anything, and Sherlock's available as well. Otherwise, sleep tight. Good night, Sally."

"OK," she said to John, as she put the phone away. "That wraps it up for tonight. It all went smoothly, so well done."

"Thanks," he replied, as he crouched down over the cases, starting to unpack. "So what now?" He seemed happy to accept Sally's command of the operation. Military training, she supposed. “Where do you want me to sleep? I can kip on the floor, if you like.”

“You got a phobia about four-poster beds?” she demanded. “Because there’s a ginormous one right behind you. Probably used by Queen Victoria herself. We sleep there.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to...share. Like I said, I’m fine on the floor.”

“You’ll do your back in,” she said and just managed to avoid adding: _a man of your age_. “And it’s a big enough bed.”

“It’s just...if I move round in the night...” He was staring down at the shirts in his suitcase, but the back of his neck was going pink. “I mean we’ve got to work together, professionally.”

That was what the Fr–Sherlock had been hinting at, wasn’t it? That John fancied her, but thought she might get freaked out if he got a hard-on sleeping next to her. Well, it wasn’t going to do their cover story any good if her supposed new husband was fretting about being too randy. She made a rapid decision.

“You know what?” she said, smiling at him. “We can either stick a line of pillows up the middle of the bed, so you can be sure I won’t molest you. Or we just sleep with one another, get it out of the way.”

John looked up from the suitcase, licked his lips, and then smiled. He did have a nice smile.

“Sounds more comfortable than the pillows,” he said. “If you’re sure?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, we’re meant to stay in the room for the rest of the evening, anyhow, so it’s really a choice between watching telly, playing cards, or having sex."

"The telly's always crap on Saturday nights," he said. "And I brought a book, but I didn't think to bring a pack of cards.” And then his face fell. “Or condoms, for that matter."

"I packed some condoms, but I forgot the cards," she said. "Sex it is, then?” She’d told herself when packing that the condoms and the sexy lingerie were just for Sally the Solicitor, but OK, she _had_ wondered what was underneath John’s jumpers. And now seemed as good a time as any to find out.

"OK, John said, standing up and grinning broadly. ”I take it the aim is to convince the hotel staff we are on honeymoon?"

"Strictly recreational, no strings attached. And no boasting about me to your mates afterwards, either."

"I can keep my mouth shut," he replied soberly. "But...it's hard to fool Sherlock."

"Just stop him announcing it at the next crime scene," she said. Though Sherlock hadn't said anything about her bust-up with Mark, so maybe he was finally learning some tact. Talking of Mark, she probably ought to make sure John was clear on the situation.

"And when I say, no strings attached..." She paused, wondering how to put this.

"What you mean is, I don't get to tell you what to do afterwards," John said, smiling again. "Sherlock warned me...I mean, I understand that."

You could only expect so much tact from Sherlock. And, of course, he'd have worked out about her and Mark. Still at least he hadn't decided to inform half the Met this time.

“I’m the senior officer here,” she said. "Whatever happens, that's not affected."

“Happy to obey your orders then, Sergeant Donovan,” John replied promptly. “But can I just say? I'm glad you picked me for this and not Sherlock."

***

The appreciative lust with which John watched her take her blouse and bra off made her suspect that she'd made the right decision, and that was confirmed when he started kissing his way slowly and deliberately down her body: mouth, ears, neck, nipples. And then his lips were teasing at her navel, as his hands started, rather skilfully, to unbutton the front of her skirt.

"We'd probably be more comfortable on the bed," she said, "and maybe you should get undressed as well, before you spoil your nice suit."

"My shoulder's a bit of a mess still," John said. "With the scarring. If it bothers you, I can keep my shirt on."

"Won't worry me," she said, smiling. "I'm from Hackney, I've seen plenty of guys with bullet holes in them."

She'd never seen much of John's body before, but it wasn't bad, she thought, as he hastily started to strip. Compact, but sturdy, and that went for his cock as well. He looked almost hard already, which was good. He might be ten years older than Mark, but he wasn't that old, after all. Her investigations weren't going to be a disaster.

In fact, she realised, as they lay down together on the bed, he'd obviously made good use of those ten years. Or maybe doctors just knew more about female anatomy, because his fingers were expertly seeking out her clit, even as he carried on kissing the rest of her body enthusiastically.

"Are you OK?" she made herself ask, gently thumbing his cock, already slightly leaking pre-come.

"I'm fine," he said into the curve of her belly, "but I was always taught ladies first."

She grinned, and pushed herself eagerly against his hand, while she started to kiss him on the right side of his neck, which he obviously enjoyed. John didn't seem to be in any hurry, happy to tease her with his fingers, attentive to the way her breathing was speeding up, turning almost to gasping now. First bloke she’d had in years who hadn’t needed detailed instructions on what to do down there, and wasn’t impatient to get his end away. She cried out more loudly than she'd intended when she came, and John looked smug for a moment, and then said: "More?"

"More," she said greedily, and it was only after a couple more climaxes that the waves of pleasure started to become painful, and she realised that she ought to bring John off.

"Oral?" she asked, rolling away from his touch. It wasn't her favourite, but Anderson had loved it, and she'd got pretty good with all the practice.

"I'd come too soon," John said, "and I'd rather be able to see you properly, all of you. What I'd _like_ is you on top."

By the time she had the condom on him, he was very hard; she straddled him, and started to rock, as he thrust up enthusiastically, his hands intertwined tightly with hers, his eyes dark with pleasure. He wasn't going to last long, she thought, from the way he was gritting his teeth, but it didn't seem to matter. He didn't cry out as he came – she supposed he wasn't a natural screamer – but the soft, warm, dopy expression on his face afterwards was rather cute, made him look almost boyish. And then he kissed her gently on the nose, and said: "That was wonderful, Sally, you were wonderful," and she rolled off him, and gave him an extra hug, because he was quite sweet, really.

"We'd better finish unpacking,” she added hastily, because enjoyment was one thing, but they had a job to do tomorrow. “And then maybe get an early night, because you look worn out.”

“OK,” John replied, and though he was still smiling, she could see him hastily try and get his mind back in gear. “Do you want to go through the bathroom first? But please don’t nick all the hot water, if you’re having a bath. Sherlock’s terrible that way.”

She smiled back at him: she liked practical men. “I'll try not to. I like to sleep on the right-hand side of the bed, facing the door. And if you steal my half of the duvet, you’re going to get arrested. Understand?”

“Completely, Sally,” he said.

***

It was the Freak – no, Sherlock – who phoned them in the morning, but he sounded almost professional to start with.

"There's not going to be a lot going on, since it's Sunday, so it's mainly a question of getting to know the village. Have a wander round, admire the scenery, get yourself noticed. Lunch and dinner both at the hotel. Talk to the staff there, especially if there are any who aren't English: they might have ideas about who in the village doesn't like outsiders. Oh, and Sally, you're a decent actress, aren't you?"

"Pretty good," she said, wondering what was coming next.

"Some provocative behaviour while you're out in the village would be helpful. If we're going to get our culprit doing something reckless, you need to press all his buttons hard. He has nasty ideas about black women, so you need to live down to them."

"What do you mean?” she asked, and promptly wished she hadn’t.

"He told his first victim she was gagging for it. His words, not mine,” said Sherlock. "We'll expect your report this evening." He put the phone down.

"I'm sorry," John said. "He shouldn't...Sherlock probably shouldn't be talking to you at all during the op."

"From him, that almost counted as tactful. Don't worry, John. I can cope with worse than Sherlock."

***

There wasn't much of Midwinter, but it was picture postcard material, all honey-coloured stone – Cotswold stone, John said – and flowers, and clean grass. And a duckpond, of course, with a wooden bench beside it for them to sit on. No shopping trolleys in the water, either, just some rather picturesque ducks. It was either idyllic or boring as hell, and Sally knew which she reckoned.

"Relax," John said firmly. "This is the countryside, you're supposed to be enjoying nature."

"This isn't natural," she protested. "This is all cleaned-up so you can't see the poor dying in their cottages of starvation, or whatever it is country people die of. In between sleeping with their sisters."

"Bloody Londoner," said John cheerfully.

"You are too."

"I wasn't always," he said. "Grew up in Sussex, in a village nearly as pretty as this."

"And?" she asked. You got to know your colleagues on undercover work; it always did something to people.

"When I was six or so, we went to Heathrow to collect a friend coming back from America. And there were all these strange place names on the arrivals board, and there was a man there in African dress, the first black person I'd ever seen in my life. And it all seemed so much more thrilling than a small Sussex village could ever be." He turned and smiled at Sally, and his arm went round her.

"I came to London to study twenty years ago and I never regretted it. Some guys in the army, they're fighting for places like Midwinter, it's the England they dream about. Me, I was fighting for London as much as anywhere. Where you can wear a bikini or a burka or a really tasteless T-shirt, and there's people from everywhere in the world, mostly not killing each other."

"I wouldn't have expected you to say that," Sally said, grinning.

"You mean I'm an idealistic idiot?"

"You sound like, what's their name? The jumper people. United Colours of Benetton, that's it."

"Oh God, that is harsh," John said, shaking his head, but still smiling. He had a nice mouth, she thought, lips a bit thin, but very kissable. And she was supposed to be being provocative.

"Fancy a snog?" she said. "Or will it upset the ducks?"

"Ducks are randy as anything," he replied. "You don't want to know what mallard drakes are like."And then they were kissing each other as if they were eighteen, and she moved a hand down into John's lap, stroking the fabric over his rapidly growing erection.

"Sally!" John protested. "There are probably by-laws against that, and I don't go for outdoor sex, I always end up too near nettles. So can you control yourself, my gorgeous wife, till we get back to the hotel?"

Good, he'd picked up what was going on.

"I'm fine going back to the hotel, if you can still walk?" she said.

"Just," he said. "But for God's sake, behave yourself till we get back to our room."

***

John was giving a good impression of a man who could barely wait to rip her clothes off by the time they got back to their room, but the moment they had the door closed, his hands detached themselves from her, and he backed away towards the bathroom.

"Was all that for show?" he said, breathlessly. "Because if you want to stop, tell me so."

"We keep going," she said. "Keep it real. If you're up for it."

"I'd have volunteered for undercover work years ago, if I'd known it was this much fun," he said, and then he was pushing her against the door, his body pressing against hers, his mouth on her neck and his hands on her bum.

"God, you're like a teenager, aren't you?" she said after a bit. "You'll strain something, if you're not careful. Haven't you worked out by now that you can never get the angles right with wall sex?"

"I know," John said, as he let her go, and started pulling off his clothes. "I learned that age seventeen. You just made me forget again for a moment."

"What on earth were you like at seventeen, if you're like this now?" Sally demanded.

"More stamina, but completely clueless otherwise. And I've always been short and funny-looking."

"I'm sure you were cute."

"I spent my twenties regretting I still looked like a kid, and now I'm nearly forty and worrying about how old I look. I can't win."

"You're not doing badly," she said, as his fingers traced up her back, and reached for her bra strap. "In fact, you're doing pretty well..."

***

"I don't want to complain," John said, a lot later, "but are we supposed to be doing something more useful this afternoon than lounging around in bed?"

"Bonding," Sally replied. "Gets us used to working as a team."

"Sally," John said, sitting up and staring at her, and licking his lips nervously, "I don't need bribing with sex to work with you."

"I didn't mean it like that," she protested. "But the more we get used to one another, the better we'll work together. You should know that from the army."

"We don't bond quite like this in the army. And I presume this isn't standard police procedure either."

"Undercover, you do what it takes to make the op work," she said. "And we might as well enjoy ourselves now, because it's going to turn nasty. You know what the second half of our story is."

"John Watson brings Sally Donovan to Midwinter for their honeymoon. He's besotted with her–"

"Which is why he's going to take it so hard when he finds out she's a bitch," Sally finished.

"Yes," John said, quietly. "That's the bit I’m not going to enjoy pretending."

***  
"There's nothing fishy at the hotel," Sally told Lestrade in that's evening's phone-call, "but I think we've made ourselves pretty conspicuous."

"That's good," he said. "John and you getting on OK?" His voice was carefully neutral.

"He's fine. Easy to work with."

"Send him back in one piece or Sherlock will be cross. And you tell him to take good care of you, as well. You know how dangerous this is."

"I know, sir," she said. "I'll try not to do anything stupid."

***

Monday morning was the village shop and then the village pottery, where John spent an excessive amount of time choosing a rather hideous mug.

She couldn't help murmuring as he carried it back to the hotel room: "Médecins sans Frontières John likes homemade pottery?"

"I'll give it to Sherlock," he said smiling. "What's this afternoon?"

"Trip to some place called Bourton-on-the-Water."

"Oh, yeah, I remember Sherlock talking about it now," John said. "God, I'll be glad to get out of Midwinter for a bit. It's harder than I realised not to slip up."

"Yeah, but we need to stay in character when we're in public."

"I just don't _like_ MSF John," he said rather plaintively.

"He's better than Solicitor Sally," she replied. The Freak had been very clever setting up their characters, she could see that now. Under the strain of being undercover, John's gentle friendliness took on a self-consciousness that made him seem socially awkward, a bit of a loser. And her fierce professionalism could easily be mistaken for harshness, her leadership as simple bossiness.

"So what's the attraction of Bourton-on-the-Water?" she asked.

"Got a model village," John said. "A scale model of the town, which includes a model of the model village, which includes–"

"Oh God, this is what passes for entertainment round here?" Sally said, giggling. "OK, John, let's go and enjoy ourselves."

"Then this evening, we're trying the pubs. Well, the first of the pubs. There are two in Midwinter."

"What are they like?"

"The receptionist reckoned the Audley Arms was very nice. Done up recently, turned into a fancy gastropub."

"So?"

"So we try the Black Ox first," John said. "Sherlock doesn't think our man's going to be the trendy gastropub type."

***

The Black Ox was definitely an old-fashioned pub, and Sally didn't care for it one bit. The barman was cheery enough, but she got the clear impression that some of the other customers thought women weren't supposed to order pints of cider. And the menu was unappealing as well.

"Lasagne and chips, chicken in a basket, and I bet the fish has never seen the sea," she said in an undertone.

"It's tradition," John said firmly. "Cornerstone of village life."

 _It's creepy_ , she thought, but she didn't say anything more till they were back at the hotel.

"They weren't comfortable with me there, were they?" she said.

"No," John replied. "But do you think there's something more? I...I’m not sure what we’re looking for.”

"Nothing obvious,” she said. “This bloke isn’t the skinhead and tattoos type. But the thing is, everywhere in this village, I’m getting those ‘what are you doing here?’ looks–”

“You are?” John broke in, with concern. “I hadn’t realised.”

Most white men didn’t, in her experience, but at least he was taking her seriously.

“Yeah,” she said, “but I’m used to that whenever I’ve out in the sticks. But there was something more in the pub. I can’t say what specifically, but it just felt _wrong_. More wrong."

“I thought it was just an old-fashioned pub,” John said, sounding worried, “but I trust your instincts. When I phone Lestrade, I'll see if he can get some of the people there checked out."

"I might be wrong."

"Sherlock might be. Might not be this village, might not be a connection with the Lambeth Rapist at all. But it's the only lead we've got so far, so let's make the most of it."

***

"It was Forbes on the line tonight," John said, after he'd made the evening's phone call. "He says they'll have Uniform check out who was in the Black Ox this evening, say they're going to be having a drink-drive clampdown and are giving people advanced warning."

"Anything else come up? Anything from the cold cases?"

"They've dug out the old evidence, and forensics are onto it. But nothing useful yet. So Forbes says carry on, go back to the Black Ox tomorrow, maybe stir things up a bit more."

"Dunno it's going to work."

"All we can do, for the moment," John said. "By the way, I bought you something at the Model Village." He tossed a pack of cards onto the bed.

"Is that a hint?"

"So you have a choice," he said, grinning.

"Do you know how to play strip poker?" she asked.

"Not very good at card games," John said cheerily, "but I'm always willing to learn."

***

Either John was a better liar than she'd realised, or he was lucky, because he was definitely winning to start with. But once she'd taken her blouse off, it was surprising how quickly he lost his winning streak. Or maybe not. It cheered her up, as they ended up naked in bed yet again, to have someone around who _liked_ black women.

***

"Long healthy country walk on the schedule today," John announced the next morning. "Then the Black Ox in the evening."

"I don't know which sounds worse," Sally said, feeling her stomach knot at the thought of the pub again. "I don't like walks in the countryside, and it'll wreck my shoes."

"You didn't bring trainers?"

"Nobody told me I needed to."

“If you can’t face it, we don’t have to. But I'd like to get out of the village for a bit, get some proper exercise.”

“ _You_ could go–“ she began.

“No, I’m not going without you. I’d worry about the thought of you here in the village on your own. You know we need to stick together.” He was taking the whole ‘bodyguard’ side very seriously, she knew; it was the part of the operation he felt he could contribute to. And getting some exercise that wasn’t just horizontal jogging might be good for them both.

“OK,” she said. ”But I can’t walk as fast as you.”

“I’ll take it easy. And I think there are some decent paths, so your shoes will probably be OK.”

"Probably?" She wondered for a moment if he was trying to wind her up, but his expression was still serious.

"Sherlock was saying he wants our relationship to start showing cracks," John said. "I suspect Sally the Solicitor is not going to be at her cheeriest in the pub tonight if she's got blisters on her feet."

***

She didn't have blisters, but she did tread in a cowpat on the walk, and it wasn't hard for Sally the Solicitor to be frosty towards MSF John that evening. And John, bless him, was picking up her signals by now, and rather than his normal calm was coming out with the kind of inane chatter that would grate on any woman's nerves. Though her nerves were already wire-taut, because she was more and more convinced that someone in the pub was watching her...

***

"Two possibles in the pub whose profiles would fit," Lestrade told her that evening, "but we need _something_ before we can pull either of them in. The Gloucestershire team is trying to trace where they've both been for the past few years, if there's any hint of trouble in previous locations, but it all takes time."

"I know, sir," she said. "I don't know if we're getting anywhere."

"We're going to have to force the pace," Lestrade said. "See if we can get something tomorrow."

"That soon?"

"I don't trust the Gloucestershire lot not to start leaking. We’re getting more and more people involved."

"Tomorrow it is then, sir."

"We'll sort something out overnight, arrange a proper briefing meeting tomorrow. Good night, Sally."

"Lestrade wants to set the trap for tomorrow," she told John, "but they're still working out the details."

"Right," John said. "You OK?"

"Scared," she said, because she didn't mind him knowing now.

"Not surprising," he replied. "It's always bad the night before a battle. What would help take your mind off it?”

“Music,” she said. “Shit, I haven’t got my own phone here.”

“You like hip-hop, don’t you? They’ll have MTV on the telly,” John said, picking up the remote and handing it to her.

“Sally the Solicitor likes hip-hop. I like proper music,” she insisted.

“Which is?”

“Soul.”

“Radio 2? They might have it as one of the channels.” John lay down on his front on the bed, wriggling into what she already knew was his favourite telly-watching position.

She looked at her watch. “Not likely they’re playing soul at the moment.” She started flicking through the channels: sport, stupid quizzes, soppy films, bloody US cop shows (like British police officers weren’t good enough), shopping channels, fifteen different episodes of _Friends._ And then the next channel came up with a choir singing something so familiar it sent a thrill up her spine...

 _I open my mouth to the Lord and I won’t turn back_  
 _I will go, I shall go, to see what the end is gonna be._  
   
“This’ll do,” she said.

“What on earth is it?” John demanded. “Some kind of religious programme?”

“Yeah, gospel stuff,” she said. “I used to sing it when I was a kid.”

She waited for John to snigger, but he just said: “At school?”

“No, at Mum’s church. They made me one of the soloists when I was ten.” She couldn’t help it, she found herself joining in, her feet starting to shuffle into the old sway. _Lots of energy, now, Sally, don’t let it drag._ Losing herself in the rhythm, the smooth, passionate sound. And then they had _He Lives_ , and _God is My Everything_ , and she could just sing this stuff forever. Only now the camera was shifting, slightly shakily, from the choir to a man in a smart suit with a stern look on his face, and she hurriedly switched off the set.

“What’s up?” John asked. She felt a moment’s embarrassment that he’d been watching her, but he added simply: “Please don’t stop on my behalf. It’s a lot better than Sherlock’s violin playing. You’re a good singer.”

“Yeah, but the music’s over. It’s the sermon next. And I bet they’re going to get onto fornication.”

“Thought you were only allowed that on adult channels,” he replied, grinning up at her. She glared at him.

“Sorry,” he said hastily. “You had too many sermons when you were a kid?”

“Still get ‘em from Mum,” she said. “She wants me to give my life to the Lord and get married.” _Shit,_ why had she told him that?

“And you don’t fancy either?”John’s voice was quiet, sympathetic. You got to know people on undercover work, but now wasn’t the time to talk about her family. She needed to stay focused till the op was over.

“I’d rather have the fornication,” she said firmly.

John was sitting up now, looking at her as if trying to make a decision. And then he said, slowly: “I think we’re probably both going to hell for these last few days. So do you want to make a thorough job of it?”

“Why not?” she said, and smiled, and went to sit on his lap. She didn’t feel very sexy right then, but John’s hands were slow and gentle, and soon it was like the music: you could lose yourself in it, forget the problems of real life. And afterwards, it seemed almost as comforting to fall asleep with his arms round her; her own private army, still on duty. She’d miss that, after tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I will open my mouth](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3OMV6QxJzzk)   
> [He lives](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPGo8QusfsU&feature=related)   
> [God is my Everything](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTyPzxadJqo&feature=related)   
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally's going to stop the Lambeth Rapist, whatever the cost to John and her.

The briefing meeting next day was in one screen of the cinema at Gloucester, which was bizarre, but effective. Lestrade and Forbes were talking to each other in the polite and formal tones of men who really didn’t get on, but at least they seemed to have agreed on a course of action. And there was no Sherlock there, which suited Sally fine.

"He's back on the Lambeth end," Lestrade explained, when John eventually asked. "We're going to get this creep one way or another."

"Good job he's not around," said Forbes, who was small and dumpy and sharp-eyed. "I don't _like_ having civilians involved in my ops." Sherlock had obviously got up his nose as well, Sally thought. No wonder they were trying to get the thing wrapped up so quickly.

"Well there's just John now," Lestrade said firmly. "And he knows to keep out of things once Sally's left the pub."

"Can we just check you have the timetable clear, Dr Watson?" Forbes said doggedly.

"OK," said John, with the resignation of someone who'd already been given the same orders several times. "Sally and I go down to the Black Ox to eat at 19.30. She'll then get a signal from you via a text message, at which point she quarrels with me. She storms off back to the hotel, but rather than staying on the road, she takes a shortcut, the footpath through the fields. When I've been quarrelled with, I sit in the pub for another half an hour, and then go back to the hotel along the main road. If nothing's happened, I meet Sally back at the hotel, and that's it for the night."

"You do not..." Forbes prompted.

"I do not leave the pub before the half hour is up," John went on wearily, "I do not get drunk, I do not draw attention to myself unnecessarily."

"Sergeant Donovan," Forbes went on, more enthusiastically. "You're happy with your part of the operation? We will have you under close observation at all times, and we will intervene immediately if you are attacked."

"That's fine," she said. "Let's hope we nail the bastard."

***

After the briefing session, Lestrade and the Gloucester team left, but John just sat there silently beside Sally in the empty cinema, looking worried.

“You OK?” Sally asked. Her hand was almost automatically reaching out for his, even though they wouldn’t be on display for a few minutes yet.

“Are you sure they know what they’re doing?” John asked. She was oddly grateful he didn’t ask if _she_ knew what she was doing.

“What do you mean?”

“It sounds very risky to me. Especially not coming to your rescue till you’re actually attacked."

“Gotta be done like that,” she said. “I’ve had that before being a decoy. Until they’ve actually laid hands on you, or started to steal your bag, there’s no proper evidence. You get shat on by the defence counsel, with all that ‘oh, the officer over-reacted and my client just wanted to ask directions” sort of thing, and half the time they get away with it.”

“I see. So you’re OK with it?”

“Got Lestrade watching my back, which is almost as good as you,” she said, trying to sound cheery. “And it sounds like he and Forbes between them have the Gloucester boys well-drilled. Though you know what they haven’t planned?” she added. "What we're going to quarrel about."

It seemed odd to be discussing that holding hands – the cinema had put some background music on now, they’d be opening up the screen again soon – but she needed to be sure that bit would go smoothly. "You didn't ask, either," she added.

"I'll be more convincing if I don't know what to expect," John said quietly. "You lead and I'll follow."

"You're hard to quarrel with, though."

"Sherlock winds me up sometimes. You'll think of something."

"Sally the Solicitor will," she said. "Just remember it's MSF John she's furious with, it's nothing to do with you."

"I know," he said, as he stood up, and then he sighed and looked sadly at her. "But I wish to God this whole thing was done and dusted. I’ll be a lot happier when we’re both safely out of Midwinter for good.”

***

In the Black Ox that evening, they mostly sat in silence, as they waited for their meal to arrive; Sally the Solicitor staring morosely at MSF John, who was hunched over his beer and unhappily trying and failing to make conversation.

"Did I tell you about the time in Afghanistan–" he began at one point.

"I'm sure you did," Sally broke in. "You never stop talking about what you did there."

"I thought you were interested."

"I was, the first time." There was another long silence and then Sally's phone started to ring. MSF John winced slightly at the sound of the Black Eyed Peas.

"Who's calling you?" John asked in a tense voice, and as Sally read the text saying _GO_ , inspiration struck her.

"It's a text from Mark," she said.

"Mark?"

"Mark Dimmock," she said, and saw John's eyes flick as he caught on.

"I didn't know you were still in contact with him," he said awkwardly.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she demanded. She hoped John could follow her lead, but if she was quick and brutal enough, it didn't really matter.

John was licking his lips nervously. "I thought it was over between you two."

"Why should you think that?"

"You said–"

"So I said that. So what? Why do you keep on trying to control me all the time?"

"I don't," John protested. He was definitely improving as an actor, she thought.

"You do. You're just like Mark, you think because you're a man and I'm a woman you get to tell me what to do."

"Sally!" He'd got MSF John's pained tone just right, a man seeing his relationship disintegrating before his eyes. "Please don't do this to me!"

"Why not?"

"Because I love you." He sounded so desperately sincere. "And I thought you loved me. So can you please stop thinking about Mark?"

"You know why I keep on thinking about him?" she demanded, because Sally the Solicitor was setting him up for the killer blow.

"Why?"

"Because he's not hopeless in bed like you are, John!" she snapped. John was sitting there speechless, his colour draining away, and that was as good an exit line as any, wasn't it? She grabbed her coat and bag and hurried out of the pub.

God, Sally the Solicitor was horrible, wasn't she? Still, never mind, she added to herself, because she was Sergeant Donovan again now, with a dangerous job to do and to do well. She started to head for the footpath.

She mustn't go too fast, she knew or they'd have problems keeping her under surveillance, and it would be rash, anyhow. There was a bright moon out, but there were a lot of shadows, and with the path beneath her feet so uneven, it was not at all pleasant, even without a possible attacker. There were _things_ moving in the night around her, and was it the wind rustling the hedges or something, somebody else? And where was the path anyhow, she couldn't see it clearly for a moment.

She didn't dare look behind her; she must keep her eyes on the path or she'd trip, and she'd be appallingly vulnerable on the ground. Just keep going, she'd be safely back at the hotel soon. And then there was a hand reaching out from the shadows grabbing her arm – he'd somehow got ahead of her, how had that happened? Her nails went up towards his eyes, as she aimed her knee for his groin, but God, he might be old, but he was big and strong, and he kicked her legs from under her, so that she lost her balance. She opened her mouth to scream, but he grabbed her by the throat and hissed: "Shut up, you black bitch!" And _fuck_ , he had a knife, he'd never been armed before...

And then something, someone, crashed into them, and she was falling. She managed to roll as she fell, to slide out from underneath the tumbling bodies, and she scrambled up and _ran_ , because it wouldn't help if she got taken hostage. She ran straight into yet another person, and she could feel the bulk of his stab vest, even before he announced: "It's PC Watts, you're OK. Don't worry, you're safe."

"Have you got him?" she gasped. "He mustn't get away."

"It's OK, miss, Sergeant, we've got him. It's all under control."

"I need to see," she said, and she staggered back along the path. There were loads of coppers there now, their torches lighting up the field and the hedges around, and – God – there was someone still struggling further down. Had they not secured him yet? Then she realised that there were two policeman handcuffing a man lying on the ground. And that the man that Lestrade was dragging away was John, who was still frantically trying to kick her attacker's head in.

***

They'd been alerted about the operation at Gloucester police station, but they still wanted to play it by the book, treat her as if she'd been the ordinary victim of a sexual assault, and Sally was wearily grateful for their care. When she finally emerged from the rape suite, at some awful time before dawn, she found Lestrade dozing outside, her luggage heaped around him.

"How are you doing, Sally?" he asked, slightly groggily.

"We got him, which is the main thing. Do we have to stay around any longer?"

"No. I'll get some coffee, and then I'll drive us back to London. Nice safe city for us both."

"Thanks, sir," she said. "If you're sure you're not going to drive into anything. We could maybe get one of the Gloucester boys to take us?" She still felt far too wired to drive safely.

"Let one of them drive inside the North Circular? My nerves wouldn't stand it," he said smiling, and rubbing his face. "Oh, and John thought you wouldn't want to go back to Midwinter, so he brought your stuff here."

"Is he alright?" she asked, with sudden alarm.

"He's fine. Which is lucky for him because attacking an armed man in the dark is bloody dangerous."

"It was him who grabbed the suspect, was it?" She hadn't been 100% sure.

"Who else would rush in without thinking like that?" Lestrade said. "I swear, Sally, we would have got you out safely without him, but he just beat us to it. After we'd given him specific instructions not to get involved, too." He smiled. "But I suppose there's not much point in ordering John to stay out of trouble."

"He's a soldier," she said. "You can't expect him to sit around when a comrade's in danger." If he hadn’t been there – a knife was so quick – _no_. She wasn’t thinking about that.

"Suppose not," Lestrade said with resignation. "I've got him off assault charges, and Sherlock turned up and took him home."

Nice to see the Freak showing a bit of consideration for once, she thought. “So is there anything else we need to do?”

“ _You’ve_ done everything you need to on this case. Time to go home."

***

"Will you be OK on your own?" Lestrade asked, when they got to her flat. "I can stay if you’d like someone around. Or if you’d rather, I can phone Jenny...or Kath Climpson or Yvonne Hemingway.”

"It's fine, sir...Greg," she said. What she wanted right now, _needed_ was family. Someone who’d understand what she’d been through. "I'll have a shower, sort myself out, and then, well my sister Sophy's son Ezra is six months old and teething. She might be glad of me going round, even at 6 a.m." Sophy would remember about the Lambeth Rapist as well, be glad to hear her little sister had finally nailed the bastard.

“Nothing like a screaming baby to take your mind off your own troubles," Lestrade said, smiling. “Where does your sister live? Are you OK getting there?”

“I know a couple of local mini-cab drivers. I’ll get one of them to take me.”

Lestrade nodded. “As long as it’s someone you know, trust, not some random bloke. And if you need anything, phone me.” He paused and then added: “You were bloody brilliant, you know that, don’t you? I’m putting you in for a commendation.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Are you gonna sort out all the paperwork, as well? That’d be more useful.”

“I promise,” he said. “Come back in when you’re ready, and take care till then.” He tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

“Sleep well,” she said. “See you soon.”

***

She was back into work four days later, because her tolerance for babies was wearing thin. Sophy had been great, and her mother had come round and been comforting as well, but now Mrs Donovan was starting to get that broody look that said one grandchild just wasn’t enough. It was tough going back into Scotland Yard, but she’d been through bad cases before, and she knew that there was nothing like tasteless jokes from your colleagues to get you through the rough patches.

She was still edgy, of course, but they kept Mark away from her, and Kwame Joseph was soon busy planning how they would set up the first Midwinter Carnival ever, which would culminate in forcing the Black Ox to put some decent food on the menu, not just cardboard fish and chips.

"I say we burn down their maypole while we're at it," Jenny Ng added. About fifteen racial stereotypes later – which included a few token slurs on the French, just for Lestrade's benefit – Sally remembered why she wouldn't work for any force other than the Met. And realised that they were probably going to get into trouble with HR yet again.

***

The rapist's name was Barnaby Stockdale, Sally learned, and the CPS told her a few days later that he'd confessed to so many other offences they might not even need her evidence to bring the case to court. She smiled, her body unwinding a fraction more.

She ought to phone John, let him know about Stockdale, she told herself. He hadn’t been in contact, and she’d been grateful at first, that he’d realised she needed space. But she was starting to wonder if it was more than that. It was nearly a week now. Maybe he was presuming that things were over between them now the operation was finished. Well, it had been her saying no strings attached, hadn’t it? But he was still her friend and she ought...No, she’d leave it. Get Lestrade to tell John about Stockdale, if he hadn’t done so already. He was probably busy with Sherlock’s cases, anyhow.

***

Five minutes after she got back to her flat that evening, her mobile started ringing. When she answered, an irritatingly familiar voice said: "I need to speak to John."

"Why the fuck are you phoning me, Freak?"

"As my previous statement suggested, because I want to get hold of John."

"He's not here," she said automatically. "Why would he be?"

A sigh came down the line. "Sally, let's not dwell on the obvious. Just let me talk to him."

"I haven't seen him since we left Midwinter," she protested.

There was no reply for a moment, and she could almost see the frown of concentration on the Freak's face. And then he said abruptly:  "John was upset by the case, more so than I’d expected. A couple of days ago he said he needed to go away, think about things. I had assumed...." There was a pause, and then he added: "I thought you might be better at dealing with any fallout. I...find it difficult to know what to say on these occasions."

"I thought he was safely back at Baker Street. Why didn't you try and track him down?"

"I made the obvious deduction as to his whereabouts, and I didn't need him urgently. But if he's not with you, it's _curious_. Lestrade or Stamford would have told me, Harry's unlikely, especially given John's emotional distress – though I know where his gun is, which is reassuring – Bill Murray is a possibility, I suppose..."

She hung up, because she wasn't interested in listening to the Freak's deductions. Besides, she had her own ideas. John would have gone to someone sympathetic, but prepared to keep Sherlock in the dark about his flatmate's whereabouts.  Admittedly, the list of people who liked John and couldn't stand Sherlock was still a pretty long one, but she somehow suspected John would turn to a woman in a situation like this. And when it came to women who were soft touches, there was one obvious name that sprang to her mind. The first person to try, she decided, was Dr Molly Hooper.

***

"I must admit I am a bit worried about John," Molly said, as they sat and drank coffee in her cramped kitchen. "He said he needed to get away from Sherlock for a bit – which I can understand – and I was quite happy for him to stay in the spare room, but he's hardly coming out of it at all. And I think he's having nightmares."

"We had a nasty case in Gloucestershire, it must have got to him."

"I thought there was something," Molly said, "but he didn't want to talk. I'll tell him you're here."

***  
John was too polite, of course, simply to refuse to see her. He just sat miserably on the bed in Molly's spare room, as she went in, arms wrapped firmly round his drawn up knees so she couldn't easily tell how much his hand was shaking. His face looked nearly as grey as his grey pyjamas. She pulled up a chair, and sat there and waited in silence. It worked, sometimes, with witnesses.

She was kidding herself, of course. Putting off what she knew she had to say, but didn't know how to.

"Thanks for rescuing me," she said at last. "I'm grateful." She wasn't any good at fancy speeches, and she probably didn't even _sound_ grateful. But John didn't seem to mind.

"My pleasure," he said, almost automatically, and then abruptly added, "I shouldn’t have jumped in like that. Might have made things worse."

"But it didn't," she said firmly. "And if you'd waited round for the Gloucester lot to save me, we'd still be there, they're so dozy."

She expected a smile from John at that, but he didn't look any happier. She had a sudden memory of him sitting on the four-poster bed, grinning at her singing gospel music. There was something badly wrong, but she didn't know what. Try and get him talking at least.

"The bloke's name was Barnaby Stockdale," she said. "Confessed to a whole string of attacks. He was working overseas for years, so the team are trying to trace if anything similar happened elsewhere. The psychologists are going to have a field day with him, but he's fit for trial, I'm sure."

"Lestrade told me about him,” John said, and then he swallowed and said abruptly: “I would have killed him, you know, if they hadn't stopped me."

"You've killed men before," she replied automatically, "The cabbie." _Oh shit_ , she thought, _not supposed to know about that, am I?_ Though she was slightly grateful that someone had saved the Freak’s neck that night.

John nodded and went on raggedly: "The Midwinter bloke wasn't...a very nice man either. Almost as bad as Jefferson Hope."

He'd killed the cabbie, and saved Sherlock's life, and walked away almost casually after that. As a police officer, she did _not_ approve of that kind of behaviour. As a human being, she’d shed no tears over the death of a serial killer, and she wouldn’t have done over the Lambeth Rapist either. So why was John this time looking as if he just wanted to curl up in a small ball and howl?

"What's the problem, then?" she asked, because being tactful obviously wasn't getting anywhere.

"That I'm no better than bloody Mark Dimmock!" he exploded, and his hands came up to his face, palms pressing into his eye-sockets, as if he could force the tears back by sheer pressure. "I was so _scared_. So shit scared that I lost it completely."

It finally registered. It hadn’t been one clean, calculated takedown this time, had it? When it was her, not Sherlock, in danger. 

"Because he was attacking a woman?"

"Because he was attacking _you_! You're beautiful, and brave, and wonderful, and he didn't care because you were the wrong _fucking_ colour!"

He wasn't used to that, of course, the way she was. He'd have to toughen up, but now wasn't the time to tell him so.

"It's not your fault that some white bloke's a bastard."

"But I couldn't stop him! I wasn't allowed to protect you."

 _Very loyal, very quickly_. She remembered someone saying that about John once. And she also remembered now that he wasn't a good actor, but when he'd said 'I love you' that last evening it had sounded real. Because it was real, perhaps? That was the problem with undercover work, pretending to be someone else _did_ things to you. And, _shit_ , she'd compared him to Mark, hadn't she, in that last quarrel?

"I didn't mean...," she said, and she stood up, and went over and put her arm round his shoulders.  "What I said about the sex wasn't true, you know."

"I know," he said. He rested his head in relief against her belly, but his voice still sounded as if it was being dragged out of him in tiny pieces. "But I'm the same as Dimmock really. Can't bear seeing a woman I...care about get hurt."

"It's OK," she said, holding onto him. "No-one got hurt. And we got him, thanks to you."

"I know," John muttered, and she could feel the tension in his warm, solid body as he forced himself not to shake, "but next time, _please_ wear a stab vest."

Mark would have said there mustn't be a next time. John understood about her, but it went against all his instincts.

"Would you wear one?" she asked, and abruptly realised how much more she was really asking. He lifted his head, blinking the tears away.

"Look odd in the surgery," he said at last, with a ghost of his normal grin. "But I'll try and be careful. I mean, it's difficult with Sherlock around, but I'll do my best. If that's what you want."

"I want you, John," she said, "In my bed. And in my life. Because you’re a far better man than Mark Dimmock.” She put her mouth down to his, and suddenly he was reaching up, kissing her with the desperate hunger of a man who hadn't touched her for days. She could feel her own body start to respond to him, as she kissed enthusiastically back, an instinctive lust that raced in and swept away the bad memories. But as John's hand reached for the bottom button of her shirt, she grabbed at his wrist.

"God, I'm sorry," he said, pulling away. "I shouldn't, I didn't mean...you probably don't want to, after that."

Stockdale hadn't got her body, and he wasn't getting her mind, either. She would do what she wanted, what they both wanted. But not just yet.

"We're in Molly's flat," she said firmly. "I think there are limits. So I suggest you get dressed and come to my place. Because I'm not having sex in 221B till it's guaranteed 100% eyeball free."

"Give me a few minutes to pack," John said, and she left him and went downstairs. She tucked her blouse in as she went, but she should have known she couldn't fool Molly.

"John's feeling better, is he?" Molly said with a smile.

"He...I'm taking him home with me," she said, grinning back.

"That's good. He needs looking after sometimes, and he won't get that from Sherlock."

"I'm not sure I can give him what he wants," Sally said, and then, as Molly looked quizzically at her, added, "all that he wants."

"It's hard to love people as much as John does," Molly said. "But you came and found him. That's a good start."

"I'll do my best," she said. Because she didn't know if she felt the same way that John did, but they were friends, and they were good in bed together, and they could work out _something_ between them.

And then John came downstairs, kitbag in hand, pulling on his coat, and there was a sudden feeling inside her that might not be love, but was at least pretty close. And as he fumbled in his pockets for his gloves, she reached out and took his left hand, and wrapped its tremors in the warmth of her own fingers, and said: "Let's go."

And John followed her, of course.


End file.
